hearts

328 Entries for “hearts”

“Hey,” Ed looked up from the cow he was disemboweling, “where should I put this extra long intestine?” Todd, the slaughterhouse manager replied, “Oh, just toss it on that pile of hearts over there. We want to keep things tidy.

Hearts are mended and broken continuously.
Day after day. Minute after minute. Second after second.
Here in this place, the vicious cycle never ends.
So no more wearing of hearts on sleeves.
I no longer have enough thread of self respect to mend what I have lost.

like valentines. i think of sweets and chocolate and flowers framing our shaded eyes and sagging faces. the uplifted, warm, and graceful caress of love or beauty or joy. the word purity comes to mind. unadulterated piece and comfort. the sun shining through the trees on a lightly winded day while playing with sticks and dirt and drinking processed modern factory products from leaves. watching clouds or curled beneath the stars. watching the moon on a restless night as you blissfully dream of a fantasy world which seemed so real not so long ago. slow but potent lovemaking. drinks and smokes and talking on rooftops at 3 in the morning. just when the world seems so relentless and inhospitable, be reminded that sentiment exists and that there are good things here that you can be a part of or appreciate or share or create. even when its seems youve gone way beyond a care, after youve become accustomed to the warn stretched and useless feelings, know that you have a heart – if only it were set free.

i had never met a person who had so blatantly worn their heart on their sleeve. it was as if he thrust his hand inside his chest, ripped out that disgusting, veiny, blood pumping muscle and offered it to me. it almost made me wish i could do the same. but i’ve always let my head rule, not my heart. hearts are messy, and i didn’t know how to get blood stains out. and once you give rip your heart out, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever get it back.

Hearts…where are the hearts filled with love? There everywhere. The goal to unlocking the love is acknowledging that its there and understanding what it is. I hope that one day the global society will do this and we will live in a world of peace.

Hearts hearts, full of love.
At the mention of love, we think of hearts.
Some think of the heartbreak of a break up.
I think of the love that will not be returned from the one I call my best friend.
But maybe to some, it means heart disease.
Maybe to some, it means a painful heart attack.
Pain and love.
All from one word.

Doodle hearts in your notebook
all you want, hun.
Doesn’t change the fact
that life isn’t fair.
He’s never going to be yours
and if you wait a few years
you’ll see that he
would’ve been the worst thing
that could happen to your heart.

epoxy boxcrates checkering
the warehouse floor in a southern quilt
of past-its-prime antiquity
and holistic expendables.
sifting through amputee
promises, piecemeal
beginnings and MIA ends
the Queen of Hearts
is playing doctor
with the gardening shears
dying lily white smiles
in sanguine patchwork.

hearts are the world’s most fragile treasures.
they can hold so much, but only take so much.
i feel like our hearts have gone through so much in the small course of two years.
i find myself thinking about that way to often.
i find myself wanting our hearts to be in sync as they used to be.

She was born without a heart, they said.
What they didn’t know? She’d been born with too big a heart. And slowly, so slowly she barely noticed it happening, the world hurt her and she had to protect herself. She had to harden her too-big heart for the roughness of life.
That’s how you came to know the woman you do. This is the repercussion of how multiple people treated her. Including you, when you call her a heartless bitch.

He couldn’t bear to let go of her hand. There was resistance in the tug he gave her, which struck him in the deepest part of his soul. She didn’t want to come with him. Their whole relationship flashed before his eyes – the sleepovers, the dinners, the valentines laced with hearts – what was he to do if she didn’t love him anymore?

As he was wont to do, he pulled out a pack of cards and said, “Up for a magic trick?”
“Sure,” you said.
He said, “Pick a card, any card,” as he fanned the pack out.
You pulled a card, a three of spades, and placed it back in the deck.
He shuffled. You saw his telltale sign of concentration, that tongue peeking from between his lips, as he chose a card.
He held out the King of Hearts. “Would you let me be the king of your heart?”
“Wrong card.”

Dazed and Confused plays while my heart strums the same. The erratically smooth chords sync in unison as my mind beats insane, the words hustling rhymes of ‘you’ and ‘true’ as I miss the feeling of your arms, the comfort of your poetry.
This night I think of nothing but you as the evening serenades your birth; the essence of rain fluid assertion of your soul, the darkness a reminder of the Labyrinth in which we trialed and prevailed. I see no Stars but know them to exist, for I see your constellation freckles in their clouded bane, where I count the chrysalis of moths bloomed in the nighttime silence, when they make a silent storm upon the wind, spelling, ‘Cancer’, ‘Centaur’, and ‘Orion’ in the chase for Immortality.
You, my Friend, will ever be known, as always you have been, in my soul.
Anam Cara, I will always wait, always hope, always seek you, in this time, this hour, the journay of Us.

You promised; two hearts beat as one, two souls live like one.
What happened to us? Why did you watch my fragile little blood pumping clock go crazy and then fall and break into tiny pieces? Why did you leave them scattered?
You and your empty promises, I waited for you to come back like Prince Charming on his white horse, but it’s too late now.
Apologize unaccepted.

Hearts are beautiful organs, most central to life and elegant in their own right. I prefer brains, myself, in terms of favourite organs because the brain is so much more complex and sophisticated, handles so much more and works in such wondrous ways, but I can appreciate the ingenius design of the heart, its proper role as the body’s provider, the highway, the delivery system and courier and waste removal and everything else. It is the life-bringer, that which keeps everything- yes, even the brain- alive and working well. It pumps in that syncopated rhythm, almost at a waltz, lub-dub pause, atria-ventricles-refill, sinoatrial node-atrioventricular node-Purkinje fibres and contract. The snapping-shut of the mitral and tricuspid valves between atria and ventricles, then shortly thereafter the semilunar valves of the pulmonary vein and the aorta, and the thrum of the vessels filled with the rhythmic rush of blood, distributing it around the body and bringing it back to the source. All these steps are performed like a ballet, in perfect sync with all the others, each part has its role to play as the nerves are stimulated and the muscles contract and the blood passes, atria-ventricle-pulmonary vein-lungs-pulmonary artery-atria-ventricle-aorta and away.

there’s this thing i do in my head when i think of the stars i see them as hearts cuz i see them as you so far away but so clear to me that i need you here. the stars have time to move but you don’t you have to believe truly happiness has the lightness of a cloud i know you do i know you do now why cant i.
i believe in snowflakes baby i believe in autumn leaves in memories of places we’ve been far across the trees i know i know i haven’t been so far as to see the things that you have seen i know its simple just to say but i appreciate you every day

The cardiac surgeon had a collection of preserved hearts in glass jars along the back wall of her office, each one displayed like a prize, the venous, fleshy muscle suspended in formalin a lackluster grey-brown shade now, with no blood left to keep it a beautiful red. A tongue-in-cheek legend had it that each one came from an ex-lover, but that couldn’t be proven. She was mean enough for it, with no speck of beside manner in sight, someone habitually hard on the residents and intolerant of incompetence, but when she had a heart laid out vulnerable under her scalpel, she would smile. Even her minimal jewelry was an homage to her favourite organ, an anatomically-correct (she had checked) heart carved in silver. They called her the Queen of Hearts behind her back, but she didn’t mind; she loved hearts. Most people confused the head with the heart, she thought, called the heart weak and impulsive, indecisive, irrational. Quite the contrary in her mind; the heart was incredibly strong, capable of working tirelessly over an entire lifetime pumping litres of blood all over a body. The heart was strong as a muscle should be, the left ventricle particularly noteworthy as a muscle and affection-, adoration-, appreciation-worthy. No, the heart was strong, it was the mind to blame– not the brain, but the mind– for the row of hearts on her wall.

Claudia sat clutching her rosary. Repeating the Lord’s prayer with every bead. Moving the chain through her hands. She was praying for her husband of 35 years, James. Liver failure. “He’s still fairly young. He’s got a chance.” said the sympathetic brunette nurse. Claudia continued to pray.

Lottie wondered if the doctor was ever going to come out and talk to her about her Eli. Her eyes stared fixated on the black hands of the white face of the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Twisting her new wedding band around her finger with every movement of the minute hand. She prayed for the surgeons, nurses, and of course, for Eli. He had been on the list for six months. He has been at the top once before but the transplant fell through. His ticker was failing. This was his second chance. It was only a matter of time.

The surgeons came out. Heads down, face masks wrapped around their wrists.
Claudia looked down.
Lottie looked up.
The surgeons spoke in quiet unison across the vast waiting room,
“We’ve lost him. He fought with all his heart.”
“We’ve found a donor. We’ve got the heart.”

One woman filled with grief and the other brimming with relief,clutched their hearts and sobbed.

hearts that every existence has it , it pumps blood in our body, what we can do with our hearts , when ı love you my heart is blowing, screaming,making good things ı know , ok lets connect our hearts maybe we can make the life better in this way

When I think of hearts I think of love and how everyone’s definition of it is very different. Some people find love to be the something someone should find at first sight. Some think that we have another half out there waiting and searching for us. Others think we all have a prince charming and some think we have shot the idea of love to fantasy levels.

You have two hearts. The physical one and the emotional one. One dies when your physical body dies. But the other can die far before that. And unfortunately more than once. Like when you finally figure out you’re one of many girls. Or when the only person keeping you alive hangs up on you as you have a gun cocked and loaded against your temple. These kind of hearts, unlike the physical one can be fixed. But it never really seems to work right again.

i automatically think of the cards. the queen of hearts to be exact. i think of her as raw loyalty, to be queen of hearts? which in most cases is love. what kind of witchcraft. i assume she knows all kinds of crazy secrets of the human mind, love, and intentions alike. and yet she sits atop and watches the world because in curiosity because for some reason the king of hearts is missing.

my heart is pounding underneath aching ribs
and bruising shoulder blades
I started eating meat again because I am anemic
I take the soul of an animal so that I can be strong
I thank the animals for giving me strength
I thank my heart for keeping me alive

I never really understood what people meant by “the queen of hearts.” Okay, I get it, it’s probably a heart throb woman or whatever, but I just find the whole phrase to be lame. As a matter of fact, I passionately don’t like the word heart, unless we are talking about the organ. Otherwise it all seems very generic and overdone.